A Winter's Jaunt
by Sparky Dorian
Summary: 31 days of Sherlock Holmes. Day 14, from Book girl fan: Moran attends a funeral. Day 15, from Spockologist: Burnt rug.
1. Insomnia

**A/N: Hello!^^ It's been awhile since I've written fanfiction, but I am excited to participate in this December's challenge.**

 **Day 1, from cjnwriter: Insomnia.**

The chilly night pressed in at the windows, creeping through the cracks and seeping through his blankets. John tucked the quilt up above his nose, sighing softly. The cold ached in his old wounds.

He rose stiffly, drawing a robe around his shoulders. Adding another log to the fire, he glanced at the clock on the mantle.

Half past three.

"Good heavens," he muttered, grimacing. And with an appointment at eight.

Shivering, he turned back to his bed.

With one hand on the covers, he paused.

An unidentifiable sound was drifting up from the ground floor. Curiosity peaked, he exited the bedroom and crept out onto the stairs.

There below, his housemate was wide awake, bustling between several stacks of paper. He was in his dressing gown, seemingly impervious to the chill.

John watched for a moment as he scribbled notes and began to draw a diagram.

Halfway through, he paused and scowled.

"No, of course that's not it," his friend muttered, "that would be absurd."

The detective erased the diagram and started over.

Several lamps ringed the room, casting a warm glow on the busy workspace. John squinted down. He recognized the top paper, it was a news clipping—a case they'd reached a dead end on three weeks previously.

Fatigue at last began to grip John's mind, along with a strong desire to return to his blankets. Before he spun to go, he spared one last look at the detective.

A smile crossed his face.

How many lives, he wondered, had been changed because the great Sherlock Holmes was suffering from insomnia?


	2. The Grand Opening

**Day 2, from Book girl fan: Something opens...**

I combed my hair and straightened my collar, stifling a yawn.

Another grey winter's morning lay ahead.

As I stepped outside the bedroom door, I paused. Frowning, I sniffed the air twice. A rich medley of scents wound their way up the stairs; cinnamon, vanilla, chocolate, scones, and the creamy smell of fresh butter.

My steps quickened. "Mrs. Hudson?" I called. "What is that delightful aroma?"

Mrs. Hudson looked up from her chair. "Don't ask me, Doctor," said she, her voice stifled and stuffy. "I've caught a head cold. I made up some porridge for breakfast, but I very much doubt that's what you're smelling."

I picked up an extra quilt and laid it across her lap. "There now, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go to any more trouble for us today."

She smiled, and sneezed into her handkerchief. "Thank you, Doctor Watson."

"Have you seen Holmes this morning?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

I shrugged into my coat and ducked out the front door. The streets were crowded, carriages and people milling back and forth on their morning duties. I glanced up toward the rooftops, and sure enough, clouds of black smoke billowed from every chimney. All of London, it seemed, was taking troubles to avoid the cold.

The smell of baking bread wafted up the street. My stomach rumbled, and I turned toward it. As I rounded the street corner, I ran into an old woman leaning heavily on her cane. Skidding to a halt, I patted her arm.

"I'm terribly sorry, Madam," I said.

"Quite alright," she croaked in reply.

"I beg your pardon, what is all this about?" I gestured to the line, puzzled.

She didn't turn round, but answered, "Mrs. Paisley's new bakery, of course. Just opened this morning. I'm here to try one of her scones."

My eyebrows rose. "Indeed."

Suddenly, I recalled seeing construction on an empty storefront. My mind being absorbed in my work, I had taken little notice.

With the evidence of the bakery's goods floating up the street, however, it was quite impossible _not_ to take notice.

The queue shuffled along. I shuffled along with it.

Perhaps, I thought, if I plied Holmes with a few fresh muffins, he might actually eat a proper meal to start the day.

When I stepped into the bakery, warmth flooded over me. Every surface was stack with rolls and bread and pies and pasties, cookies and croissants. Scarcely able to choose, I collected a small pile and paid the woman at the counter.

"Are you Mrs. Paisley?" I asked.

She was a plump, red-haired woman, with eyes that always seemed to be smiling. "Yessir," she said. "Thanks fer stoppin' by."

"My compliments. I will most certainly stop in again."

I gave way to other patrons and pulled a scone from the bag on my way out.

The sweet confection crumbled and melted in my mouth.

"Holmes will have to eat one of these," I mumbled.

As I left the shop, the old woman from earlier attracted my eye.

"Madam," I said, "you were right about the scones."

I caught a glance at her face and frowned.

Stepping over, I got in front of her and looked beneath her bonnet.

Glittering brown eyes stared back up at me from under a curly grey wig.

My face stretched in surprise. "Holmes!"

He hushed me. "Not here, Watson. My disguise is proving most effective."

Lowering my voice, I pointed at his clothes. "Where did you get these?"

"Oh, that is of little importance."

Upon examining him more closely, I noticed a smattering of crumbs along his chin.

"Did you try the scones?" I asked, dryly.

He gave me a very lofty look, his lips twitching. "Purely a scientific endeavor. My disguise needed testing and the new bakery required… inspecting."

I stifled a laugh.

"Very well. If you're all through inspecting, Granny, allow me to escort you home. You'll catch a chill out here in the cold."

Holmes took my offered arm, leaning once more upon his cane.

As we approached the flat, he hummed to himself.

"You know, old fellow," he said, nodding. "I may have to inspect the bakery again."


	3. Fanfiction

**Day 3, from I'm Nova: Characters writing fanfictions. We were the first fandom in existence, so it is plausible.**

From the moment Holmes awoke, a prickle of unease nipped at his neck.

He combed his mind as he combed his hair, staring into space as he sought for the cause of his disturbance. The fact that he could not trace the cause only discomfited him further.

"Watson," he called through the doctor's open door. "Have we any appointments today?"

"Not today." Watson was making his bed—tight and straight, after the army fashion.

Holmes frowned. "Hm."

"Is something the matter?"

"Not in particular. It's just that I have the queerest feeling…"

His gaze caught on a stack of papers on Watson's desk. To mask his curiousity, he said with mild contempt, "Another one of your stories, is it?"

"Yes. This one is quite good. I just finished it. Do you remember the case last month? It took me this long to get the details right." The doctor seemed in a good mood this morning.

Holmes nodded. "I suppose your readers will be pleased, then."

Distracted, he made his way down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He peered into the kitchen.

She was nowhere to be found. Perhaps, he thought, under bedrest by Watson's orders. Half the weekend had been punctuated by her sneezes.

He reached for a slice of bread, then stopped.

A stack of papers rested on the kitchen table, too.

Had Watson resorted to using the housekeeper as his proofreader?

Casting a glance in both directions, he flipped one page over.

His brow furrowed.

The script was not Watson's neat writing, but rather the flowing loops of Mrs. Hudson's hand. Interest fading—he had no desire to read her grocery lists—he began to turn the paper back over.

One word caught his eye.

 _Mystery_.

That was most decidedly not for sale at the grocer.

"Holmes, I'm going out for breakfast with Mary this morning!" Watson's announcement was nearly enough to make Holmes jump out of his skin.

"Yes, alright," Holmes replied quickly.

The door snapped closed.

He scanned the page quickly, his eyebrows shooting higher with each line.

"Good gracious…" If he were possessed of a weaker constitution, he might have fainted from sheer surprise. His and Watson's names were sprinkled through the text. Some of the details were rooted in truth, but the circumstances were entirely fictitious.

As if it were on fire, Holmes dropped the paper and stepped away.

Even with his powers of deductive reasoning, he never would have guessed that Mrs. Hudson would be given to such pursuits.

The slice of bread forgotten, Holmes retreated to his room.

At least the prickle of unease had gone.


	4. Iodine

**Day 4, from Winter Winks 221: Iodine. Sorry for the indirect use, haha.**

The whole affair was as irritating as it was dull.

Until now, I've never recorded anything about those few months in 1887. Ordinarily, my friend Sherlock Holmes was happy to impart his learning on many subjects. In fact, watching him do so was often rather like watching a child eating his favorite treat.

So you will understand my surprise when, upon receiving several requests from a man at Oxford University for articles on various subjects, Holmes behaved as if he had been asked to peel potatoes or scrub out the loo.

"But why are you being so disagreeable about the whole thing?" I'd asked him one morning. He'd scowled so intensely at the letter in question that I feared it would burst into flames.

Holmes lit his pipe and leaned back in his armchair. "Augustus Gibbons is hardly the man I trust with my expertise."

"He is putting it out for others to read," I pointed out.

That only deepened Holmes's scowl. "And claiming it as his own, no doubt."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "You saw the last article yourself, Holmes. He credited you in that one and all five before it."

As Holmes continued to sulk, even once he began to put ink to paper, I sensed that there was a deeper cause to his hostility.

The moment to ask, however, was not then.

After that incident, scarcely two weeks passed before the next request arrived.

"There's another letter for you, Holmes," I said, dropping it on the table.

He set his teacup on top of it.

"It's from Gibbons," he said, taking a bite of toast. "The smell of peppermint is overpowering. You read it, Watson, I haven't the time."

I cast a glance between him, his toast, and the letter, but picked the envelope up without comment. Scanning the contents, I summarized for him. "He thanks you for your previous contributions. This time, he is asking for an article on the properties and uses of iodine."

Holmes drained his teacup and shook his head. "This is the last straw, Watson. Gibbons has no interest in practical chemistry. I have nothing to say to him on the subject of iodine. Nothing at all. You will simply have to write it this time."

"Me?" I frowned. "But—"

He stood. "I've an appointment with Mycroft this morning, so I'll leave you to it."

Left alone in the dining area, I sat and looked at the letter again.

With a thoughtful hum, I nodded. "Iodine it is, then. Just so. Perhaps it'll stop all those army chaps from using it to clean out wounds…"

I began to scribble in my notepad.

The article _was_ published, in fact, under my friend's name.

It was the last time Gibbons asked for a contribution.

For that, Sherlock Holmes (and, hopefully, our boys in he army) thanked me.


	5. Decorating

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. They make me smile. I definitely need to read some canon to refresh my memory on some things… So forgive me for my mistakes._

 _From Wordwielder: Decorating_

A sunbeam burst through the window at half past seven, shooting right into my eye. The warmth pressed bright yellow against my face, rousing me from my dreams.

Groggily, I shook off the tremors of the war and sat up. The first real cold of each year always slung my mind back to damp nights spent in chilled trenches.

With one hand, I blocked the sun. "Thank you for waking me," I mumbled. "Next time perhaps a bit sooner."

I washed and dressed, rushing through the tasks to stave off the cold.

Just as I smoothed my covers, a terrific bang rattled the floorboards. I jumped, cursing.

"Holmes!" I shouted.

Opening the door, I peered out into the hallway. His door was ajar, but all was quiet. Suspicious, I hurried to the living room.

My mouth fell open.

Standing in the middle of the rug, draped in tinsel and clutching a wreath, was none other than one Sherlock Holmes. His arms were outstretched to keep the colorful strings off the ground, and his hair was strewn with bits of glitter.

I covered my mouth to keep from laughing.  
"Wiggins," Holmes hissed. "Pick that up, quickly."

The boy shot Holmes a sheepish grin and strained to lift the tree. One other Irregular (a new little towhead called Freddie) bent to help.

"Allow me," I said, and righted the tree at once.

Holmes gave Wiggins a very unimpressed look. "The game is up, it would seem."

Wiggins flushed. "Sorry, Mister 'Olmes."

"What is all this?" I asked, turning round once. A snow globe rested on the coffee table, an old nativity on the mantle. Several strings of tinsel already lined the room (the rest still looped around my friend). The tree was a stout, sturdy green thing. Needles sprinkled the floor where it had fallen, and the smell of pine filled the air.

Holmes sniffed haughtily. "An experiment, Watson, that is all. You needn't trouble yourself."

Freddie piped up, "We're decoratin'! Mister 'Olmes said ye'd been in low spirits an' this might cheer ye up!"

Wiggins elbowed him.

Holmes quirked one eyebrow, fixing the lad with a flat gaze. "Remind me, Fredrick, never to send you undercover."

"Yessir." Unbothered, Freddie plucked a length of tinsel from Holmes's arm and began to arrange it on the tree.

I fought a grin, my mouth twitching, and clapped my friend on the shoulder.

"Well, Holmes, I have good news for you."

Looking both bashful and annoyed, Holmes tilted his head. "What's that?"

Then I smiled broadly, taking the wreath from his hand.

"Your experiment was a success."


	6. Holiday Mysteries

_I took a bit of a random direction with this prompt._

 _From Book girl fan: Holidays! Where do they go?_

1) The tooth fairy.

Sherlock placed his tooth under his pillow, along with a very pointed rock he'd snatched from the garden. It poked into his neck and kept him from getting too comfortable. He was going to wait up and see.

He was four, and he'd knocked out the tooth—his first—while trying to climb the fence.

"Good night," Mother said, kissing his forehead.

He gave her a gappy smile. "Night, Mum."

The light faded from his window and darkness settled sleepily across the room. Sherlock squirmed, wiggled, blinked, and recited times tables under his breath.

But at some point, his eyes drifted closed and didn't open until the sun fell on them the next morning.

With mixed disappointment and excitement, he reached under his pillow. Not only was his rock gone, his tooth was too. In its place was a shiny coin. He rubbed his fingers along the surface and flopped back onto his pillow.

Frowning, he stared at the money.

Mycroft had lost three teeth already. Perhaps he could explain it.

2) The Easter bunny.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. "Are you awake?"

His brother rolled over and mumbled something.

Sherlock edged closer, clutching his blanket. "Mykie."

With a moan, Mycroft waved his hand. "Mmmph."

Scowling now, Sherlock clambered up onto the side of his brother's bed and poked him in the ribs. "Mycroft."

Mycroft sat up and gave him a terrible glare. "Go back to bed, Sherlock. Do you know what time it is?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "It's nearly two."

Rubbing his eyes, Mycroft grumbled. "Is it? Go back to sleep. I'm tired."

"But Mycroft," Sherlock tugged his sleeve. "Mum and Dad closed the doors. How will the bunny get in?"

Down the hall, the clock chimed. They both jumped.

"What bunny?"

"The Easter bunny."

Mycroft's eyebrow rose and he sighed. "Oh. Well, the bunny get in somehow, won't it?"

Troubled, Sherlock slid down off the bed. "Mummy said tonight is chilly. What if he gets stuck outside? Rabbits can jump to the doorknob, but they don't have any hands."

Rising from his covers, Mycroft led Sherlock down the hall back to his room. "The Easter bunny is a special rabbit, Sherly. He got in last year, I'm certain he will this year, too."

Sherlock pouted. "I don't remember last year," he complained. "I was only three."

"Then tomorrow will be exciting." Pushing Sherlock into his bed, Mycroft shushed him. "Now go to sleep, or you'll wake Mother and Father."

Quiet, Sherlock waited until Mycroft's door closed. Then he tiptoed to the window, where he had a view of the front stoop. He pulled his blanket around his shoulders and peered through the glass, resting his chin in his hands. If the bunny got stuck, he'd just have to creep down and open the door himself.

Mycroft woke him the next morning. His neck was stiff from craning at the window all night, and sleep still clung to his eyes.

"What?" He asked, yawning.

With all the airs and graces of an older brother, Mycroft pulled Sherlock to the landing and pointed sweepingly at the eggs and chocolate on the dining table. "I told you."

3) Father Christmas

By Christmas, Sherlock was nearly five, which meant he was practically grown up.

"Father Christmas can't be real," he insisted to his mother. "It's impossible to go around the world in one night."

Mother shrugged. "Well, you'll have to take that up with Father Christmas."

Sherlock's eyes went round. "Could I ask him myself?"

"I thought you said he wasn't real," Mother said, shooting him a sly look.

"That, I…" Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "It doesn't make sense."

Ruffling his unruly hair once, Mother turned back to the Christmas biscuits. "Wait until the morning, Sherlock, and he'll have come."

When night came, he made a great show of being very tired. He dragged himself up the stairs and slumped into bed. When Mother came to bid him goodnight, he barely lifted his head.

"Get your rest," she said, kissing his cheek. "Tomorrow will be a big day."

Everything fell silent. Sherlock lay with his covers pulled up to his nose, listening to the sounds of the house. Ticking clocks, creaking boards, the occasional footstep from outside. He waited until he was certain no one else could be awake.

Then, his blanket in tow, Sherlock edged his way down to the living room. The tree's shadow was outlined against the window. A single candle still burned on the coffee table. At first, Sherlock hid beside the bookshelf and peered out.

But his eyes began to droop, and it really was dreadfully uncomfortable.

He got onto the settee and bundled up in his blanket, leaving only his eyes to peep out.

His gaze fixed on the flickering candle, Sherlock waited.

When he awoke, the whole room was changed. The first sunlight dripped in through the windows, and new candles lit the scene. Brightly wrapped gifts lay beneath the tree, and Mother's biscuits were merely crumbs.

Sherlock jumped to his feet.

"Why, you're up early." Father came down the stairs, his hair in disarray. "You didn't sleep there, did you?"

Mother and Mycroft filed down behind him.

Sherlock slumped back onto the couch and sighed. "I wanted to see Father Christmas and ask him how he goes around the world in one night. Then I'd know he's real."

Father opened the drapes, letting the morning in. Mother and Mycroft sat on either side of him.

"Perhaps," Mother said, setting a hand on his knee, "one day you'll figure it out."

Mycroft nudged Sherlock gently. A glimmer in his eyes said that he knew something Sherlock didn't—but of course, he'd never tell. He never told anything.

He gave Sherlock a fond, gentle smile that dispelled almost all the disappointment billowing inside his chest. "Sometimes not knowing is the best part."


	7. Jokes

From cjnwriter: Not in the mood for jokes.

I recall that we pursued the sorry devil for nearly a month before we finally caught up with him. House after house, shop after shop, he robbed his way through half of London.

Out of sheer exasperation, Inspector Lestrade pled with Holmes to investigate. At first, my friend resisted; petty robbery was hardly his line of work.

When Lestrade mentioned the thief's methods, though, Holmes became _mildly_ interested.

The thief had never harmed his victims; in fact, he came and went far too quietly for anyone to realize he'd done his work. He stole a single item from each target—generally the most valuable portable object in the venue—and replaced it with an article of no worth at all.

In the jeweler's, he swapped the largest diamond with a seashell. The mansion in the upper city found their ancient Egyptian dish switched out for a cracked teacup. And the art museum discovered that their most expensive painting had been removed, a string of sausages left hanging in its place.

"The humor of it is, I will admit, intriguing," Holmes had said, as we examined the latest crime scene. "As is his expertise in stealth. Such a criminal could very well move on to bigger and better pursuits, if not apprehended now. It's almost a shame to cut off his career before it gets interesting, really…" Here, Holmes had trailed off, peering at the bathrobe left to replace a one-of-a-kind dress.

I raised my eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Quite. However…" Holmes straightened, businesslike. "In the interest of London society, it will be best to capture him while his crimes remain nonviolent."

"I agree completely." With a wave to the robe, I asked, "So where do we begin?"

Holmes replaced his hat, his lips quirking up in a smile. "That, my dear fellow, is quite simple. We need only to deduce his next target, and arrive there before he does."

Slowly, I nodded. "No trouble at all then."

"Indeed. No trouble at all."

One month later, we at last made it to the scene of the crime before the crime was committed. Holmes sat silently beside me, breath held, muscles tensed.

The cat-and-mouse of this particular chase had begun to irk him around week two.

"Any moment now," he whispered.

I glanced out into the hall. Concealed in the linen closet were Lestrade and two of his men. Holmes and I waited in the sitting room, where a solid gold hand mirror lay unprotected on the table.

The master and lady of the household were safely tucked away on the upper floor.

At last, a clicking sound came from the entryway. With only the faintest squeak, the door slid open. A beam of moonlight spilled into the hallway.

Hushed footsteps crept into the room. The man stopped in front of the hairbrush. He picked it up and set something in its stead. A quiet snicker broke the silence, then the man began to stop away.

"Not so fast," Holmes said, rising. He lit the candle clutched in his hands and held it aloft. My fingers tightened on my revolver as I rose beside him.

The man was young. His face spread in surprise and he nearly dropped the hand mirror. Diving to seize it, he rose with a grin. "That was close. Seven years of bad luck would throw my plans off rather badly."

Holmes sniffed. "Hand over the mirror at once."

"I'd rather not."

"Watson," Holmes prompted, and I raised my revolver. The man seemed unarmed, but I still tracked him carefully as Holmes stepped out into the room.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes," the man said. "I was only… playing around." He held up the toy boat he'd left in place of the mirror.

"I am not in the mood for your humor."

Slowly, the man lowered the boat. "You're giving me such a sinking feeling."

Holmes gave him a withering look and reached for the mirror.

"I hope this whole thing doesn't reflect badly on my character," the man said, passing it over.

"Lestrade!" Holmes put the mirror down. The moment the Inspector and his men emerged, Holmes spun on his heel. "He is all yours, Inspector."

"Mr. Holmes," the man lit another candle. "Do lighten up. There's no harm in a good joke."  
Without another word, Holmes and I stepped out the front door, and Holmes it shut behind him.

"Thank heavens we're done with that," he said shortly.

"Though you have to admit," I replied, before I could think better of it, "he really did steal the show."


	8. Curses

From Spockologist: Watson says a curse word.

*winning smile* This is exactly what you had in mind, isn't it?

* * *

Holmes ducked beneath a drape of cobwebs. Watson followed close behind, his sleeve covering his nose. With a choking cough, he said, "Holmes, is this _really_ necessary?"

"Absolutely vital, dear man." Holmes held his candle aloft and took a left turn. The narrow hallways were dark and damp, the smells of mold and dust rising from between the stones. "All evidence pointed here."

Sighing, Watson rounded the corner with him.

All at once, the cramped corridors gave way to a wide, circular room. A few torches rested on stands around a table stacked with small books.

"At last, some light." Watson took his candle and lit one of the torches. He picked it up and held it near the table. "What's all this?"

Holmes sank into a wooden chair and pulled one small, dusty tome toward himself. "McDuggan claims that these tunnels have connections to faeries. These, I presume, would be some of their texts."

"Why such small books on such a large table?" Watson picked up a volume and flipped it open. "If there truly _were_ faeries here at one time, surely they wouldn't have required so much space."

"Perhaps this was a meeting place," Holmes said. "For humans and faeries to exchange information. McDuggan seems to believe so. In any case, I have no interest in the myths of these catacombs. I only wish to find the blueprints."

Nodding absently, Watson traced one finger along the minute text. "It would help us to find the Worthington killer, yes."

Holmes flipped through several books at random. "Ah. This looks promising." He glanced up at Watson. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to decipher this. Hold on, I think I can sound it out." He began to form the word.

"Wait—" Holmes eyes widened, but as the sound left his and Watson's lips at the same time, a flash of blue dust rose from the text.

"Watson!" Holmes jumped to his feet, reaching into the glimmering cloud. His hand found nothing. Heart speeding up, he waved the dust away.

When it cleared, all that was visible was Watson's hat and coat, lying in a heap on the floor. The good doctor was nowhere to be seen.

"My dear fellow… What have you done." His fingers trembling faintly, Holmes reached for the hat's brim and lifted it.

A tiny yap broke the silence. Holmes jumped, startled.

"Great Scott."

Struggling in the confines of Watson's scarf was a terrier pup, white with patches the same color as Watson's mustache.

Holmes got down onto his knees and held out one hand. "John?"

The puppy bit Holmes's finger vengefully.

Drawing backwards, Holmes scowled. "It couldn't be anyone else."

Snatching the book with the blueprints and the one Watson had read from, he gave the puppy a peevish look. "I do wish that you hadn't read that aloud," he said. "It would seem that McDuggan was correct. Come now, you'll catch cold down there."

Growling, the puppy bristled as Holmes scooped up the Doctor's coat and tucked it over his arm.

"I'll thank you not to bite me again." He lifted the pup and tucked him into his jacket. "I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Mrs. Hudson. We'd best sneak upstairs and sort this out before she notices I've brought a stray home."

The puppy whined.

"No, we aren't going to do it here. The whole place is… unsettling." Holmes picked up the candle and started towards the exit. "Besides that, I have no desire to spend the evening as a cat."

They made quick time through the tunnels with the aid of the maps. Holmes breathed easier once London's air filled his lungs again. He slipped out from behind the old church and onto the streets. Falling into pace with the crowd, he paused only to purchase a scone around the corner from Baker Street.

"Mr. Holmes, is that you?" Mrs. Hudson called.

Holmes cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm, ah, feeling a bit ill. I'll be in my study, no need for you to come upstairs."

"Wouldn't you like some tea, then?"

"No, no." Holmes tucked Watson back down beneath his jacket. "No thank you."

Before she could protest, he darted into his study and closed the door.

Watson squirmed from his grasp and landed on the rug, growling again. Then he began sniffing around.

"Careful what you taste," Holmes advised. He sat by the fire and fished out the faerie book. Pulling the scone from its paper wrapping, he took a large bite and pored over the text.

Lured by the smell of fresh bread, Watson edged over to sit behind him. He fixed large brown eyes on the treat in Holmes's hand and whined.

"Very well." Holmes broke off a piece and set it beside the puppy. "Now hold still, and I'll try to set you right."

As he searched the book, Watson amused himself chasing his tail, a beetle, and his shadow by turns. Soon exhausted, he plopped down at Holmes's with a doggish sigh.  
"Don't look at me," Holmes said, scratching the puppy's head absently. "You were the one who read the blasted thing."

Watson snorted.

"Well, yes, I took us down there, but really—"

A tiny snore rose. Watson had fallen asleep.

Holmes turned the page and tapped the paper. "That must be it." Gingerly, he turned and cleared his throat, reading the word clumsily.

In a burst of blue dust, the puppy grew into a sleeping Doctor Watson. Gratefully, his clothing had returned along with him. Holmes picked up a blanket and laid it across his friend's shoulders. "Welcome back, dear fellow."

He cast one look at the faerie book, curiosity tingling in his fingertips.

Then, with a sigh, he tossed it into the fire.  
Though Watson was, admittedly, a rather fine terrier, Holmes was confident that he himself would be a make for a very crotchety and ill-tempered cat.


	9. Crackers

From Riandra: Crackers.

* * *

The fire crackled and snapped pleasantly in the hearth. Outside, snow drifted lazily from the heavens, settling in slushy piles at the edges of the streets.

Winter's chill nipped at the windows.

But inside 221B Baker Street, warmth rose in equal parts from the tea, the fire, and the conversation. Watson and Sherlock occupied one settee, with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson on the other. It was a quiet December's evening.  
"Why, might I ask, have you stopped in tonight?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smiled and set down his tea. "One of my associates presented me with an early Christmas gift. It seems that company is required to enjoy it properly."

Curiosity piqued, Holmes leaned across the space between them.

Fishing in his pocket, Mycroft produced two Christmas crackers. Watson let out a low chuckle.

"I haven't had one of those since I was in primary school," he said.

Mycroft laid them on the table. "I've never tried one. Have you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock touched the bright wrapping paper. "Only as an experiment," he said. "The chemical reaction is quite intruiging."

"Well, this time it'll be for pleasure," Watson declared. He passed one cracker back to Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, and the other he held out to Holmes.

In unison, they pulled. With faint pops, the crackers burst apart. Mycroft and Sherlock were both left holding the prizes—two bits of hard candy each.

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "The Holmes family luck, I take it?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said pleasantly, passing a candy to Watson. "It is a matter of—"

"Technique." Mycroft handed both of his sweets to Mrs. Hudson.

Watson cradled his tea once more. His smile was wry. "Only you two," he said, "could turn Christmas crackers into a matter of science."


	10. Bicycle

From Mrs. Pencil: Watson takes up cycling.

* * *

"Holmes!"

The cry sounded from beneath the window.

Sherlock Holmes did not lift his head from his pillow. He'd been out late on a case the previous night. Watson had declined to help, citing _holiday time with his new wife_ as a valid excuse.

As Holmes had reminded him, the holidays spanned over a month.  
Still, he'd found himself chasing after a mysterious killer on his own.

From the streets, the call came again. "Holmes!"

It dragged as if the speaker were in motion. Groaning, Holmes pulled himself from his covers and peered through the glass.  
He blinked thrice to clear his eyes, frowning.

"Holmes! I know you're up there!"

The sun was already high in the sky, so there was no chance of his mis-seeing, but on the street below, Holmes could have sworn he saw Watson… on a bicycle.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Watson tried again.

Holmes pushed the window open. "What the devil are you about?"

"I have a lead on the case!" Watson called. "Come down!"  
Yawning, Holmes straightened his clothes and made his way down to the front step. Watson passed him. "The killer is French!"

Holmes stood and stared as Watson turned and started back.

"Why do you say so?" He asked.

Panting, Watson said, "Mary spent two years in France as a girl. I described the killer's—"

He passed by and Holmes waited until he'd circled round again.  
"The killer's mannerisms and habits to her, and she is quite…" He panted again, already halfway down the street. "Certain!"

To save time, Holmes hopped to his feet and ran beside the doctor. "Watson, have you gone mad?"

Watson slowed, wobbling from side to side. Holmes walked quickly to keep up.

"No," Watson said emphatically. "Mary encouraged me to take up cycling."

"It looks dreadful," Holmes said.  
"No, it's quite… enjoyable. However…"

Holmes looked at him sideways. "However?"

"I can't seem to figure out how to stop!"


	11. A Walk in the Park

From Mrs. Pencil: A walk in the park turns sinister.

I'm hardly a poet, but your poems inspired me to at least give it one go!

* * *

'Twas an evening most peaceful and fair,

The stars beaming down from the sky,

When two lovers were caught unaware,

Victims of scheming most sly.

To the park, cried the Doctor, all smiles and charm,

And his dear found she could not refuse.

So into the park, with her hand on his arm,

They traveled and talked to amuse.

The colors of fall dress'd the park in its best,

Bright reds and deep golds all aglow,

The lovers strolled slowly at Watson's behest:

A last jaunt before falling of snow.

They came to a pause at the side of the pond,

Speaking in voices quite hushed.

For of one another they'd grown rather fond.

(At times, they had even blushed.)

Just as they turned, to their homes to depart,  
A dark figure burst from the trees.

He aimed a revolver at John Watson's heart,

Deaf to all Mary's pleas.

Watson's heart raced, his thoughts going fast,

For his own revolver lay at home.

Should his neglect make this evening their last,

How could he ever atone?

The man pulled the trigger, but no bullet struck.

Instead, he fell to the ground.

Sherlock Holmes, by some strange luck,

Had performed a feat to astound.

They tied the man up, dragged him off to the Yard,

After which Watson thought to inquire.

Holmes found the answer to be a bit hard,

And with each word he grew ever shyer.

After the couple, he'd snuck through the night,

To cause chaos and disarray.

(The thought of aloneness struck him with fright,

Though this Holmes never would say.)

His plan left in shambles, the Detective sighed,

Finding his offense to be grave.

But the couple protested, and firmly cried,

"You are the reason we were saved!"

"Whatever the motive you had at the start,

You got it all right in the end.

We know, Sherlock Holmes, that you've got a good heart,

And you'll always be our dear friend."

So the three left together, traveling as one,

And the night air was sweeter to smell.

For no matter the trouble that comes in the run,

If friends go side by side, all is well.


	12. An Old Friend

From Mrs. Pencil: An old client asks Holmes for help.

* * *

Sherlock lay on his stomach watching a beetle crawl across his floor. It was the first bug he'd seen since the winter chill hit (excepting, of course, the spiders that lurked in the corners of their house—spiders didn't seem to care a whit about seasons).

He was nine years old, and home for the Christmas holiday.

Mostly, though, he was bored.

Footsteps in the hall caught his interest and he lifted his head.

"I'm going to tea at Mrs. Parkinson's," Mother said, peering through his door. "Would you like to come, Sherlock?"

"No, thank you." He sat up. "I'd rather stay here."

He was _not_ bored enough to endure Mrs. Parkinson pinching his cheeks.

"Very well. I'll see you in a little while. That new book is on your desk." Mother stopped in long enough to kiss his head, then vanished out into the neighborhood.

Sherlock sighed.

Just as he mustered the motivation to open up the new book, someone knocked at the door.

He jumped up.

"I'll answer it!" He called. The housekeeper didn't respond. Dashing down the stairs, Sherlock stopped in front of the looming front door.

The knock came again and he jumped.

Straining, he pulled the door open and peeked out.

His eyes widened.

"Amelia?"  
"Sherlock!"

She pushed into the house and proceeded to hug him. She smelled like tea and flowers. He gave her one quick pat on the back, then snaked out of her grasp.

Her red hair framed an equally red nose—but not just from the cold. Her damp eyes suggested she'd been crying.

His gaze narrowed. "What's the matter?"

Straightening, Amelia sniffled. "It's Captain. He went missing yesterday and we can't find him anywhere."

Sherlock frowned. "But it's so cold. Surely he wouldn't want to stay out-of-doors."

"I know." Pushing her curls away from her face, Amelia reached for his sleeve. "Do help me look for him, Sherlock. You can find him."

A pang shot through his chest and he tugged his sleeve away. "I don't think your brothers would want my help."

"They don't have to know," she insisted. "They're dreadful sometimes, but I know you're not bad. You're the smartest boy I know. Please?"

The image of Captain's fluffy ears and soft brown eyes floated before his mind.

Amelia watched him hopefully, biting one lip.

From the kitchens, the housekeeper called, "Sherlock, who is it?"

"Just… a friend, Nanny! I'm going out."

"Bundle up first!"

Amelia grabbed his hand again, her face lighting up. "So you'll help?"

A small smile crept onto Sherlock's face. "I'll help. And I know just where we ought to start."

 _Many years later._

I had just settled in for a spot of reading when a knock sounded from below.

"Watson, could you answer that?" Holmes called.

Rising stiffly, I suppressed a sigh. The Detective was, undoubtedly, in the midst of a very sensitive and important bit of work. (That, or he couldn't be bothered to speak with anyone at the present moment.)

"Alright, then," I replied. Smells of cinnamon still hung on the air, leftover from another of Mrs. Hudson's baking spectaculars. If there was one thing our dear housekeeper cherished, it was the Christmas season, with all the confections and pastries it implied.

Another knock broke the evening's quiet. I hurried to the door and swung it open, pulling my dressing gown tighter against the chill.

The streetlights illuminated the pale, drawn face of a woman.

My eyes widened and I straightened at once. "Madam, I apologize for keeping you out in the cold. Please, come in."

"It's quite alright." She wore a dark green overcoat, her hands tucked into the pockets. Stepping inside, she looked upstairs uncertainly. "This _is_ the residence of Sherlock Holmes?"

"It is," I confirmed. Closing the door, I glanced down and my cheeks reddened. "I beg your pardon, I'll just step upstairs and change."

She shook her head. "That won't be necessary. I'm in a bit of a hurry, you see. Could I speak with Sherlock?"

My eyebrows rose at the familiar address. "Of course. Excuse me."

(Under normal circumstances, I would have shouted up the stairs for him to come down. But in such company it seemed impolite.)

Halfway up the steps, I paused. "I'm sorry, my name is John Watson. Might I ask your name?"

"Amelia," she said, her hands now clasped together. "Amelia Pembrooke."

"Thank you."

I burst into Holmes's office. He dropped a glass bottle and dove to catch it. Scowling, he rose and set it on the table. "What is it, man?"

"We have a client," I said quickly. "Perhaps you know her?"

"I know a great many people, Watson." Dusting himself off, he straightened. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Amelia Pembrooke. Do you—"  
I broke off at his expression, a mix of puzzlement and surprise. He swept past me without a word and met the woman in the sitting room.

"Sherlock!" She rose when he entered and reached for his hand. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you."

Holmes nodded. "It has been quite some time. What brings you all the way to Baker Street?"

Tears rose in Amelia's eyes. "My daughter, Elizabeth. She's been missing for four days, no one can find her anywhere. I…" She swallowed hard. "I thought that if anyone could help, it would be you."

I stood as a silent onlooker. Holmes's expression grew soft and grave all at the same time. He nodded again, this time firmly. "Of course. Who has been conducting the investigation?"

Mrs. Pembrooke gave details and answered questions, penning down her address for Holmes to contact her. He even offered her tea, but she simply embraced him and left as quickly as she'd come.

Holmes and I were left in the sitting room alone.

"Who is she?" I asked, curious.

His gaze flicked to me, but he was already deep in the midst of thought. "A childhood friend."

So rarely had I heard him use such a term, I nearly choked.

"Don't look so surprised, Watson," he said, quirking an eyebrow. "We grew up in the same neighborhood. I once helped her locate her missing dog. The stakes, however, have increased immensely. There's no time to waste."

All thoughts of a restful evening abandoned, we threw ourselves into _the Game_ with a fervor I had seldom seen, even from such an ardent detective.

When Elizabeth and her mother were reunited, I was brought to ponder once more on the childhood of Sherlock Holmes.

Elizabeth was the precise image of her mother, red curls and blue eyes and a gentle smile. I could almost picture, beside her, a shy little boy with dark hair—a self-proclaimed brain with legs—holding her hand in search of a lost puppy.


	13. The Dentist

From Riandra: Visiting the dentist.

I will be writing a few 221b's in order to try and catch up.

* * *

"I'm going to the dentist!" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs.

Holmes and I shared a look.

"Again?" I asked. "Are you quite alright?"

"Just my old teeth, I'll be back in an hour."

The front door closed and Holmes jumped up. "Preposterous. That's four times in the past month, and Mrs. Hudson's teeth are uncommonly fine for her age."

Leaning back in my chair, I shrugged. "Perhaps it's all the Christmas sweets."

Holmes grimaced. "Possible, but highly unlikely. The effects would not set in so soon. Watson, we must investigate."

I raised one eyebrow. "You aren't suggesting that Mrs. Hudson is involved in something sinister?"

"Of course not. Still, we must get to the bottom of this."

Privately suspecting boredom as his true motive, I donned my coat and tramped along through the slush with him.

The only dentist nearby was Doctor Brown. We snaked through the streets until we came up next to his office.

A _closed_ sign hung on the door.

"To the window," Holmes whispered.

We peered through the glass just in time to see Doctor Brown pass Mrs. Hudson a red rose. He kissed her cheek and she beamed.

Beside me, Holmes sighed.

"I've seen quite enough. Back to Baker Street."

With a smile, I followed him home. "At least this case had a happy ending."


	14. Funeral

From Book girl fan: Moran attends a funeral.

Another 221b. Thank you for your reviews and kindness.^^

* * *

To see his grandmother lying so still gave Sebastian pause.

He hung to the back of the chapel, only watching. The sight of her face drew him back to summer mornings eating strawberries, and winter nights sipping tea.

When his parents had died of influenza, he'd gone to live with her—as a scrawny twelve year old teeming with bitterness.

She had filled him up with enough kindness to push a good deal of the anger out.

Her home was ever open to the tired friend, the weary traveller, the hungry stranger. Sebastian had grown up expecting to see at least one unfamiliar face at the supper table.

How he had changed.

Grandmother would never know of his misdeeds in the military, his questionable line of employment.

For a moment, he cast his eyes upward. The crackling tone of her disapproval echoed across the weeks since he'd seen her.

Moriarty kept him busy. Too busy, indeed, to visit her often. Sending money was the most contact they'd had since October.

A distant cousin shot a glance his way. Sebastian ducked his head and stepped towards the door.

Winter wind nipped at his cheeks as he left the chapel.

Regret was a bitter taste, but one that he had to swallow.

After all, his unsavory jobs had even paid for the funeral.


	15. Burnt Rug

From Spockologist: Burnt rug.

* * *

In all my time as the friend of Sherlock Holmes, I remember one morning as the greatest shock.

It was a bitterly cold weekend, gutters frozen over, windows coated with frost. We were pursuing the killer of a young woman, and had spent far too much time outside.

I woke shivering.

The scent of coffee drifted beneath my door. Hopeful, I donned my dressing gown.

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the bottom of the stairs just as I dad. She was dressed, but her hair was only braided.

We stared at one another in surprise.

"You didn't make the coffee?" She asked.  
I shook my head. "I thought you did."

As we neared the kitchen, humming filled the air.

My eyes widened in alarm.

"Holmes?" I called. "Have you been…?"

"No, Watson, I haven't touched my solution. Quickly, sit down before this gets cold. It is precisely the right temperature."

We fell into our chairs.

"The first pot burned," Holmes said. "It smelled precisely like that rug I burnt last fall."

He set out coffee, sausage, and toast.

Gulping the hot liquid, I asked, "It's not Christmas already, is it?"

"Better. I deduced the killer's identity early this morning and telegraphed the Yard. He was arrested an hour ago."

"What a relief," I said.

Holmes smiled. "It was a morning for celebration."


	16. Sweets

This catching up thing isn't going so well for me...

From Wordwielder: Sweets.

* * *

Inspector Lestrade rested his head in his hands.

Really, shouldn't it be common courtesy for crime and disorder to take a holiday at Christmastime?

What he wanted most of all was to go home and sit next to his fire and his wife, read the paper, and have a nice cup of tea.

Instead, he was swimming up to his neck in work.

A knock came at his office. "Inspector, do you—"

The officer's words sputtered off. "Sorry, Inspector, I'll come back later."

Lestrade lifted his head. "No, no, go ahead. What is it?"

With a cough, the officer asked, "Do you have the case for the West End robbery? I gave it to Anderson, but he hasn't seen it since."

He sighed. Sifting through the mounds of information on his desk, he extracted the needed papers. "Here you go. Say, after you finish filing this, Cooper, why don't you head home?"

Cooper frowned. "And you, sir?"

The clock chimed behind him. Lestrade shook his head. "I'll follow soon enough."

As Cooper returned to his desk, a familiar voice echoed across the Yard.

"I see you're burning your candles at both ends."

Holmes.

Lestrade stifled a groan.

"Not today," he mumbled.

The detective's work was remarkable, but the last thing Lestrade was in the mood for at half past six was a convoluted mystery.

"Inspector!" Watson greeted. "We were hoping you'd already have gone home."

Lestrade ventured out of his office and mustered a smile. "Not yet. How are you chaps this evening?"

"Quite well. We have something for you."

Holmes nodded and Lestrade braced himself.

"What is it? Theft in the upper end? Murder by the Thames?"

The duo exchanged a puzzled look.

"No," Watson said. "It's a gift. A Christmas gift, from Mrs. Hudson."

He held out a green-wrapped parcel and Lestrade took it, his spirits lifting. Mrs. Hudson's confections were legendary amongst all who'd been privileged enough to sample them.

"She thought that… What did she say, Holmes?"

The detective's mouth quirked up at one side. "She believed that 'our boys in the Yard might need some Christmas cheer.'"

Lestrade peeled off the wrapping and revealed neat rows of biscuits and chocolates. He beamed. "Well, she was right. Come on, lads, take your pick."

London's best and brightest gathered around. The mood in the Yard shifted from resignation to rejoicing.

He whistled on his way home from work.

Truly, even the strongest tides could be turned by a box of well-made sweets.


	17. Timber!

From Winter Winks 221: Timber!

* * *

The morning was quiet and peaceful and calm:

To John, the respite was a much needed balm.

As he'd worked half the night

To save a girl's sight,

He was tired right down to his toes and his palms.

x x

Thanks to the Doctor, the girl had been saved,

Her parents so grateful they ranted and raved,

And while John was quite glad

For the luck that they'd had

A long sleep was the thing he most craved.

x x

Mary shooed away every curious guest,

Each fled at the lady's most ardent behest.

As each of them knew,

Like all good couples do,

For her Doctor she did always her best.

x x

Holmes himself stayed away for the day

Preferring instead to experiment with hay,

And wait for his friend

To come round the bend

So they once again might join in the fray.

x x

When lunch time came, the Doctor still slept;

Seeing this, his wife's heart rejoiced and leapt.

He at last got the rest

That he so needed, lest

He should fall ill himself and become quite inept.

x x

But as Mary sat down to drink her hot tea

She heard a crash. "Oh, what could that be?"

Really quite stumped,

To the window she jumped

To find out what caused the untimely melee.

x x

She sighed. Of course! It was the month of December,

So the neighbour boys, were were ever so limber,

Found a most massive tree

And, as glad as can be

Brought it home with a thundering, bellowing "Timber!"


End file.
